Of Ice Skates and Earthquakes
by Melanthe Vida
Summary: It's Valentine's Day, and Spike takes Angel on a surprise outing. Complete.


Disclaimer: Spike and Angel are not mine as per usual (but I'm still waiting)

A/N: This is a sort-of sequel to Fishies, but it's not necessary to have read that one.

* * *

Generally speaking, I'm not a very romantic bloke. Flaring, scented candles and chocolate hearts are more the pouf's deal. 

But…it's been about four months. Or five. Or…whatever. The point is, he hasn't thrown me out or staked me so far. And I believe it is my duty to remind him of exactly why that is. Especially since the incident involving that broadsword of his…which he has yet to find out. Might as well make sure he's in a good mood when he does.

This is how I've come to be asking advice from Angel's I'll-still-dress-for-seventy-degrees-even-if-it's-really-only-twenty-outside secretary.

Her _Cosmopolitan_ magazine slowly lowers itself and she stares at me. "Let me get this straight: you want me to tell you what to do for Angel for Valentine's."

"That's what I just said, innit?"

She bursts out laughing like it's the funniest damned thing she's ever heard. I'm not kidding. Rolling around in her chair and slapping her knees and everything. Even a snort or two.

"Oi! It's not bloody funny!" Stupid chit. Is it so hilarious that I'm wanting to do something for Angel?

All right. Stupid question.

Stupid chit.

"Quit laughing, will ya?"

Cheerleader sucks in a deep breath and tries to keep a straight face. "Okay. Okay. You could-you could—" She giggles. "You could bake a cake."

Flowers bloom, knitted sweaters spring out of the floorboards, and pastries fill the kitchen.

I roll my eyes. "What is this, bloody Martha Stewart Un-Living? I'm not a soddin' housewife."

"Well, _I_ don't know. What do vampires do? What did you used to do with that psycho chick of yours?"

"Hey."

She shrugs. "Sorry."

I sit on a chair. "I dunno…I brought her some pretty girls once. And then there was that necklace." Which lasted for all of ten seconds before the soulless wanker plunked a heart down.

"Why don't you take him out to dinner somewhere? He needs to get out of the house, anyway."

I look at her and light a fag. That could have potential.

Although, _that_ also involves money. Maybe I could steal Angel's credit card again. Or I could just kill everyone in the restaurant except for the cooks and we could have the entire place to ourselves…

No, wait. Never mind. Can't do that with the bloody chip, and the ponce would get all depressed and guilty over it.

Right then. Back to Plan A.

"Or, I know!" Cordelia bounces excitedly, and her two ample grapefruits bounce right along with her. "You could take him ice skating. That's always romantic."

"What's romantic?" Angel asks, walking up to me. He's lookin' like something the kitty dragged in. His hair is all mussed and I can see a weird bluish-grey substance in it…and there's something on his coat that looks suspiciously like a giant crushed insect.

"Nothing, pet." I glance at Cordelia and she makes a zipping motion over her mouth.

Angel looks back and forth between the two of us and frowns. "What's going—"

Thinking quick, I ignore his disgusting state and shut him up with a kiss while simultaneously pushing him into the elevator. There's a rustle behind me as Cordelia picks up a magazine to hide her eyes.

I pull away when we're at the doorway to his room.

Hairboy's Neanderthal brows are still drawn together. "What did you do? Did you break something again?"

Bloody hell. Maybe I should stop being nice only if I've done something wrong. Might prevent these Boy Who Cried Wolf scenarios.

I blink twice. "C'mon, luv, can't I kiss you?"

Angel sighs, but seems willing to not push it any further.

I shove him on the bed and jam my tongue down his throat before he can change his mind.

That works.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

I should've known something was up when I awoke to discover that Spike had gotten out of bed before I had.

No, scratch that. I should've known something was up when he found my uvula with his tongue and washed my hair with what he's dubbed my "Fruity for Foofy Boy" shampoo without once commenting on my taste in hair products.

"Move your fat arse. We're going."

Going?

Oh Lord, no.

Dread descends over me in a near instant upon hearing that one word. The last time he said something similar to this, we ended up wrestling beside a tank full of sharks while security cameras recorded our every move.

I don't know which was worse, having to briefly explain to the police and pay a hefty fine or the fact that said police happened to be the one and only Detective Kate Lockley.

So, definitely no going. Going bad.

"I am staying right here, Spike. _You_ can go wherever the hell you want." I roll over and bury my head under the pillows. If ostriches can disappear this way, maybe I can, too.

My hundred year-old, silk feather pillow is violently ripped from my hands.

"_Spike_." I'm very aware of a slight whining tone to my voice. Fuck it. I'm allowed to whine once in a while. "Let me alone. I'm tired. I spent all day clearing out a nest of oversized mutant cockroaches in a sewer. I wanna go to sleep."

He plants his hands on his hips. "Angel, do you know what day it is?"

I frown and squint and try really hard to remember. Spike has a look in his eyes that says terrible catastrophes might occur if I can't remember. "Uh…February…twelfth?"

"No, you git. It's the fourteenth."

"Oh," I say slowly. "And…?"

"It's Valentine's Day! God, are you bloody daft?"

Valentine's Day? Valentine's Day does not hold good memories for me. They're full of nailed puppies and fresh hearts…and a really pissed off, wheelchair-bound Spike.

Best not to go there.

"Since when do we do Valentine's?"

"Since today." Spike reaches down and yanks away the covers.

"Hey!" And why am _I _the one who's always being pulled out of bed? Why can't I be the one who says, "Get out of bed, Spike, we're going to a ballet" or "Get dressed, Spike, I'm taking you to the opera" and tear the blankets away from _him_?

All right, so I've done all of that before. I have not, however, ever dragged Spike into anyplace that is potentially illegal and dangerous. Because let's face it: Spike provides enough danger and illegal-ness on his own.

Before I realize what's happening, Spike has my closet open and a belt hurtles toward my head.

I duck. "Watch it!"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Black, black, black, midnight blue, black, black, black, black, black.

Jesus, does the man not know of the phrase "color spectrum"? At least _I_ have red in my wardrobe.

When I turn around, he's still in bed and glaring at me. I throw a random pair of black slacks and a shirt at him. "Hurry up, ducks, or I'm gonna have to hurt you."

With a melodramatic huff, Angel stalks over to retrieve his (surprise, black) boxers, the one article of clothing I happen to not have chucked at him.

I have no idea why he even bothers with the damn things. Everything always ends up coming off eventually.

"Where are we even going?" he asks.

"It's a surprise."

He stops buttoning his shirt midway and stares at me. "None of your surprises ever turn out well."

"'Course they do. Remember St. Petersburg?"

"I remember you summoned an army of demons who had a bit of an aversion to human hybrids like vampires."

"That wasn't my fault. Dru got distracted and read the text wrong. 'Sides." I grin. "We got to hold hands _and_ chop off a few heads."

Angel scowls. "That's not the point." He starts to lie back down, lack of blankets and all.

Time to pull out the big guns.

I flutter my lashes. "But it's Valentine's. And when you last gave _me_ a surprise, I ended up having to witness you an' Dru f—"

"All right! All right, I'm coming."

Ah, the you-were-a-soulless-ponce-of-a-bastard-who-stole-Dru card, how I adore you.

Ten minutes later, we're out the door.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"We're here," he announces.

I squint at the sign and roughly make out the words.

"The…ice rink?"

"It ain't a golf course." He pushes open the car door.

"But we don't have skates," I say in a desperate attempt to get him to turn around so we can go home.

No such luck.

"That's why they invented the rental area. C'mon, mate." He disappears inside. With no other option available, I follow reluctantly.

After checking to see if there are security cameras around here, I step cautiously through the doors where I find him rummaging through the shelves of skates.

"What's your bloody shoe size?"

"My what?"

"Never mind. Ninny." A pair of skates come flying in my direction.

This is a bad idea. I know it is. I've only ever been skating twice in my two hundred and forty-eight years. The first time, the four of us ended up being chased by yet another angry mob because _he_ couldn't resist having a taste of some fresh lass. The second time, Buffy and I were attacked by some mullet-bearing crazy caveman in leather. Whom _he_ had hired.

And _he_ will no doubt do something that will result in us being arrested and fined for public indecency or an Apocalypse or possibly both.

I step gingerly onto the ice. Spike snags my arm as he zooms past, nearly knocking me over.

"Jesus!"

"Relax, peaches. Live a little, yeah?" He comes up behind me and tugs my head back and snakes his tongue between my teeth.

My eyes fall shut automatically and I lean back into the hollow of his shoulder, letting him carry most of my weight.

I have brains. I really do. But somehow, all gray matter ceases to function when he kisses me. I'd blame it on my absence of circulation, but that would be an outright lie.

And it's not fair. It's not fair that this leather clad, insolent punk who's destroyed virtually all of my possessions since the day he's moved in, nearly killed me and my ex-girlfriend on numerous occasions, and helped send me to Hell, is the only one who can make my knees weak and give me something that is so close to perfect happiness, I'm actually scared.

There's something truly ironic about that.

His fingers twine through my hair, trace my jaw line, and I swear the earth is shaking.

"Bloody hell!" He lets go of me abruptly and I nearly fall from the sudden lack of support.

I pop open my eyes, wondering what—

Oh shit.

The earth _is_ shaking.

No. Oh no. The Powers can't be this cruel. I won't let his happen. This can't happen. This is Valentine's Day. And I don't care that only moments ago, I was adamant on not celebrating this particular occasion.

This. Is. Not. Happening.

There's another violent shake. I lose my balance and land on my ass.

This is all his fault. I don't know how, but it is.

"What's going on!"

"It's an bloody earthquake, dimwit. And it's happening because we tried to celebrate something." He's gripping the railing for support, but falls over nevertheless.

He's right. Of course. I knew this was going to happen. Nothing ever works out when it comes to special occasions. Birthdays, Halloween, Christmas, and Thanksgiving have already been scratched off the list. Why not throw away Valentine's, too?

I scramble to my feet as the lights start to rain down. It's only now that I realize it might be a good idea to evacuate the premises.

"Maybe it's just a regular quake," I say hopefully.

"I'd rather not stick around to find out, mate."

We slip and slide and fumble our way off the ice. I rip off my skates, jam on my shoes, and flee the building with Spike in tow as ceiling beams come crashing down.

By the time we clear the building, the shaking's stopped.

I put the car into gear and call up both Cordelia and Wesley, who assure me that they are fine, although Wesley sounded on the verge of tears when he mentioned that several of his books were ruined.

You know, just for once, I'd like to have a nice holiday of some sort. With no disturbances or humiliating events or suicidal tendencies or natural disasters. Is that really too much to ask? Is it? Is it? Well, is it?

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Huh. Angel looks more pissed off now that we're back home than during all the action.

Probably 'cause he's finally had time to think and brood over every little detail.

"Don't steal all the pillows," he snaps, yanking a fluffy one out from underneath my head and dragging his potato bulk into bed.

"But you love it when I do that."

"I don't love anything you do, Spike."

"Yeah?" I whisper and scratch a nail along the back of his neck hard enough to draw a tiny drop of blood. "How 'bout when I do that?"

He simply rolls over.

This does not bode well for my abilities. I can always get him to pay attention with a well-placed scratch.

"Cor, you're moody."

"Am not," he says shortly.

"Are bloody to."

"Go to sleep, Spike."

I blow out a frustrated breath and prop myself up on one elbow. "In all honesty, shouldn't I be the one who's upset? You didn't even want to go in the first place. And—and so what if the day didn't turn out quite that well? Nothing we do ever does, Angel."

"I _know_ that," he mutters. "We're destined to have doomed celebrations for all of eternity."

God. Sometimes he reminds me of those soddin' Doom and Gloom poets you find everywhere on the internet. I wouldn't be surprised if he were one of them.

"Don't be so bleedin' morbid," I chide gently.

"I'm not being morbid. It's the truth. We truly are doomed to…"

He's yammerin' on and on. I can't bloody well take this anymore. I'm gonna make him happy whether he likes it or not, or at the very least, turn his words into groans.

I lick a wet path down his chest and swirl my tongue in his navel, slowly sliding lower, lower.

"…because I remember when—Sssspiiike…"

Yeah, that's better…call my name, love…

I chuckle and lift my head. "Feelin' good now, pet?"

There's a pounding on the door before he can answer. "Angel!"

Fuck.

"Angel, we need you! Wes says some sucking demon was raised in the quake."

Pookey looks like he might burst into tears any second now.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Not sucking, Cordelia, succubus," Wesley corrects.

I gameface and snarl. I can't help it. This is too much. I'm not asking for a perfect night out anymore, okay? I'm not even asking for a couple of hours of nice lovemaking. I'm asking for sex. That's all.

Clearly, the word "libido" has no meaning to the Fates.

"Angel, are you in there?" Cordelia calls.

Wesley said it was a succubus, didn't he? Maybe we should just leave it alone in hopes I'll be its next victim. At least then I'll be able to get off before I die.

"You're in there, I know you are!"

I'm going to cry. I really am.

"Angel!" Cordelia is thumping the door so hard it's going to cave in soon.

If she breaks my door, I'm going to

_—fuck her into the floor till her eyes bleed, then snap her neck—_

be very, very, very upset.

"Angel!"

"Give me a minute!"

I don't need x-ray vision in order to see her throw up her hands through the door. "Finally!"

I throw on my clothes for the second time tonight and stalk out of my bedroom where Cordelia and Wes are standing by the door. Wrench open my weapons cabinet and reach for my—

What the fuck?

"Spike! What the hell did you do to my broadsword?"

* * *

Happy Valentine's Day! Please review. Feedback would make me one very contented gal. :) 


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